


Skin, Soul And Sound

by EffingEden



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-11-27
Updated: 2010-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:12:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EffingEden/pseuds/EffingEden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex needs to blow off some steam. He's not the only one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin, Soul And Sound

Long Day. Not fieldwork; meetings. Bosses talking about success ratios, co-operating with departments, attitude in the workplace. What a waste of time. You’re not doing anything wrong – but it’s ever since Shales, their trust has vanished. Looking at everything. Everything you want hidden, protected. Just a matter of time. They will find it. Some wisp, some string you forgot. They will tug and tug until his body is dragged up, your fault he was loose for so long, your fault those families will never have the true justice they deserve. Your whole life, trying to build a better world – torn away because you tried too hard. And they will know how good it felt, the rush of vicious joy when he crumpled. When you won and lost. And lost.

Two little pills. They weigh nothing and yet they can take all the weight from your shoulders. They make the world feel like you’re just watching TV through a smoky room. There’s a distance, a muting. The eyes you felt watching turn away.

It is peace. More quiet than you’ve ever known. Emotions barely reach. And it is good. It’s too good. You know, in the dim, quiet of your mind that it cannot last. This will end in your own self-destruction. But you… you need it. One way or another, it’s going to be game over in a year. Maybe less. They will find a string or you will cut all of yours and drop, forever into the deepening dark. No other way.

Knowing is good. A grimmer sort of good, but you would prefer to know the end is nigh. It’s like waggling the wires. Making the world a little sharper in focus – still distant but not so blurred at the edges.

And knowing you know it is good… well, you don’t feel good. You want to. Really want to.

There is a bar you know. You go in, order a club soda. It’s not like you need a drink to feel any more disconnected. And you wait. Watch.

Women. There are young ones and middle age ones, but they all have a man or two hovering around them. You don’t feel like a woman. You don’t want to think of Pam while you fuck – that would make it not feel good. You feel not good enough already. And you don’t want to be gentle. You want it harsh, primal, so you can feel. Something. Anything.

Men. A wider variety of those. You’ve had a male lover before. Before you ran away with the army. Not much experience, but you’d had even less experience with women when you first met Pam. No, no – you wouldn’t try to find a male Pam, that would be… disturbing. You wanted something to feel good. One night, just that. Just to take the edge off this frustration that seethed in the edges of your too-still too-quiet mind.

You look over who might welcome such an invitation. It took a while, watching subtle movements, gestures, eye-contact but finally find him. He’s close, a few barstool to your left. Suitably attractive, thin but muscled, tall though at the moment hunched forwards. His drink was whiskey, he’d already had two. He wasn’t drinking the third, just staring at it, tracing the rim of the glass with his fingertip. Dressed in an expensive suit – he wasn’t part of this crowd. Didn’t fit. It was mesmerising, watching his hand circle the glass. His hand was very finely boned. And his wrists…

…were tattooed.

Tattooed wrists and a rich suit. Mafia? A frat dare? A spoilt rich kid asserting his right to defile his body? You can’t tell.

Yet.

His hand moved, dipped into his inner pocked, slid out… what? Oh. An origami bird. Masterfully folded. His eyes – blue, they were blue eyes – burned. Such anger and pain. You almost turn away then – he was obviously in a vulnerable state. Using someone while they were hurting is low.

But then, you did shoot an unarmed man’s head off.

“Hey, ain’t that the Burrows guy?”

The man - your prey - jerked, head turning to the speaker then forwards and up, to the silent TV. His lips part. He looks like his heart is breaking. You look up too, recognise the man in the mug shot. Wide, blocky features. The man who murdered the vice president’s brother.

The reporter popped up, her mouth moving silently. You can read her lips well enough. A riot. Burrows killed by person or persons unknown a month before his execution.

The kid knocks back his drink and digs out his wallet. Filled with fifties.

“Hey, the fucker’s dead. I heard his belly got sawn open.”

The boy stops looking for a smaller note. His body is suddenly tense. Coiled. Waiting for one more push.

The man loses interest in Burrows, and the kid slides out a fifty, doesn’t wait for the change.

You leave a note by your own drink and follow him out. Keeping a little way back, not sure how to approach or if you should. The kid weaves a little as he walks, head ducked and hands clasped tight. The white edge of the origami bird shows between his long fingers.

He has car keys in his other hand.

Fuck.

You pick up the pace, and just as he presses the fob, the car chirping a welcome, you come level with him.

“You can’t drive like that.”

He turns his head without lifting it. Blue eyes burn. The light catches in welling tears. His mouth is twisted in anger. No, fury. “I’m not drunk.”

“You had three whiskeys. That’s over the limit.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed and he snapped, “What are you, a cop?”

“Lets go with a good Samaritan.”

His jaw clenched and he looked away. “I just wanted…” He sighed, turned and leaned back, onto his car’s door. Tilted her chin up. His pale throat was darkened by light stubble.

“I can call you a cab,” you offer.

He shakes his head slowly. “And be alone. I can’t be alone.” The last was a whisper. No anger, but desperation.

You hear the invitation. You lick your lip and swallow before saying, “I’m sober.”

He looks at you out the corner of his eye. “You were looking at me. In the bar.”

“Yeah.”

“When we get to my place, we can do anything you want.”

You know right there, right there, him saying that. He’s broken, he’s hurting, you shouldn’t take advantage. Young, so young, so much hurt. You know the right thing to do – but you can’t. You can’t. He is too deep, too curious, too perfect. You can’t walk away. His blind thrust of trust, his open bleeding wounds, his tattoos so fresh the ink should run.

You want to drink him down.

“Ah…”

He pushes off from the car. Holds up the keys. They dangle from his fingers, the skin lying so close to the bone. You reach up to take the keys. His hand grips your wrist, stopping you from pulling back.

“I need to not think. I can either get drunk, get high or get fucked. I am not feeling picky.”

Your lips burn again, dry too fast. He has what you want. He craves his own disconnection. And oh, yes, you could give him that. “All right.”

He lets go. Steps away. Walks to the passenger seat and climbs in. You get in the driver seat

His directions lead to one of the expensive, inner city high-rise. The kid is loaded. You park the car in the underground lot. In the elevator, he leans back, eyes half-shut. Looking at nothing. The bird has vanished, back into a pocket. He is still but for his fingers, drumming the wall behind him, eyes up and fixed on the light.

You watch him as the elevator trembles. He rolls his head, focuses on you. He is attractive, even under the harsh light. Close-cropped hair that reminds you of the military – you remember your hair that short, hating it – his gaze drops slowly, looking you over. You don’t like it, but don’t shy away. He already gave himself over to you. He already said yes. To everything.

“Have you decided yet?” His voice is calm, but still low, with a ragged edge of emotion.

“Decided?”

“Drink, drugs, or rock and roll?” His mouth tugs sideways, and lines curve at the corners of his mouth.

You give a slight smile. “Actually, I prefer jazz.”

His eyebrows lift, his whole body shifts a little. “Jazz? I knew there had to be something wrong with you.” There was a lilt of laughter. Ah, that voice… the soft, subtle purr of it.

The elevator doors slid open with a rumble and sigh. He pushes off the wall and leads you down the corridor to his door. Opens it and lets you in.

It is ugly. The grace of the room, the beauty of the floor-to-ceiling window that makes the far wall is lost. Mostly to the dreadful, impersonal decoration but partially to the insane mangle of paper and photos and thick careful words, circled, crossed out, repeated, highlighted. Blueprints and rosters, character profiles and personal histories, filling one whole wall and spilling out across the window. The desk – the ugly, ugly desk – was piled high with books, more notes, more paperwork.

The boy behind you clears his throat – nervous. “Ah. I was trying my hand at writing a book. I forgot how it looks when you first walk in.” Liar. Oh, you can taste that lie. The kid knew, but he wanted too badly to care. “So, Mr Jazz. What’s the night’s pleasure?”

The casual tone was artificial. You let it pass and turn to him. “Let’s fuck.”


End file.
